


Marcescet

by ThePinkFizz



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DCU
Genre: Dark, Fear of Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, help comes too late, implied gunshot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkFizz/pseuds/ThePinkFizz
Summary: Life was like a score of music, filled with whizzing crescendos, important obbligatos, counterpoints, all of it made up the music that was life. But everything must come to an end eventually, even the greatest scores must end. And this is it: la fine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. So…I wanted to try a different approach within my writing and thus you have this. I feel good about this piece, I mean, no I don’t feel good about death, but I was happy with the mood and the feel of the piece, and felt it exhibited a strong emotional quality that gets to the root of who Bruce Wayne is and the strength of his relationship with Alfred. Please don’t hate me. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.

He doesn't exactly remember how he made it back to the manor, but he did. And he doesn't remember how he made it from the damp, bleak darkness of the cavern to the atrium, but he did.

It's dark, far too dark, and all he knows is that he's alone. And for the first time in a long time he feels something he hadn't felt: fear.

He can still hear the gunshot; the bright, white, hot flash of the muzzle against his skin and there's nothing else he can think of. He can hear his blood rushing through his veins, seeping out between his fingers in the gaps in the black and he feels afraid; properly afraid.

He's dragging himself now across the cool, clean floor of white marble streaked in strips of bluish white light silhouetting him. The stark contrast of black against white is almost symbolic. The sign of a fallen hero, bathed in the crimson of his own blood, and he doesn't know what to do.

He's tired, so tired and cold, rolling onto his side, the slight creek of the armor against the floor. His lips chapped, bruised, and bloody and he tries to speak, tries to make his voice appear from within him but nothing comes, nothing happens. And that terrifies him.

 He's clawing at his chest, trying to pull the pain away, pull everything away, the sharp angles of the cowl striped in that moonlight not far from his body. A mask: his identity, gone, removed leaving only a scared little boy; scared of the bats within his well.

He could never understand, never feel how they felt when that man pointed a gun at them, when he took their lives in an instant and in a flash. He could feel it all now: the hot, burning pain in every cell of his body and he never felt more terrified, more alone.

His brain, it felt empty, like a slate wiped clean and he was clawing at reality; shapes bending, lights blaring even though it felt so dark and cold and he shuttered trying to stay awake, trying to hold on.

He heard his breaths, spastic and flat as the air got stuck in his throat, and he felt like he was drowning, felt like he was falling all over again and he willed his voice, willed something to happen.

And then he heard his voice: not the deep-throated, fear-invoking voice that he put on for vigilantes, and criminals and Gordon, not the voice of the snarky, sarcastic billionaire playboy hiding in his own grief; the voice of the boy from the well, shouting out for help.

_“Alfred”_

 he called, his voice quiet, echoing in the emptiness of the hall.

_“Alfred”_

 he called again shaking, his voice cracking with the effort of trying to stay alive.

_“Alfred. Help me please.”_

His eyes searched, looked as far as they could. His hand at his side still covered in the sleek black gauntlet, but the armor, it was useless, it couldn't help him now.

 He was going to die all alone with no one, and that seem to scare him more than anything: the fact that he felt completely alone and terrified.

 He pulled himself closer to the staircase, leaving behind a streak of red, the outline of his body, the cut of the suit imprinted in his very existence. The thing that he built up more than anything was killing him now.

_“Alfred”_

he called, trying a little louder even though he knew his attempt was futile.

_“Help me please. Please…”_

 he called, his voice pleading.

Alfred couldn't help him now. He knew time was fading, the lines were fuzzing, he felt himself going cold, his eyelids drooping, the world falling away, everything falling away out from underneath him and he didn't know what was real and what was fiction.

Even the blood bubbling up, riddling out from underneath his fingers felt cold and he knew he didn't have long left.

 He tried once more, desperately.

_“Alfred”_

There was nothing, not even the sound of the house settling and he knew he was completely alone.

 He felt his eyes closing, his breath leaving his body, everything fading away until there was just the sound of one thing; a call shattering through his fall. A call…too late…far too late. It was fading…so soft…barely audible…like a breath…

_“Master Wayne!”_

 it said.

_“Master Wayne! Bruce! I'm coming! God, oh God, Bruce. Please, please, don’t go…don’t leave me…you’re all I have left… Bruce!”_

 

 


End file.
